


the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls

by queerfave



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Angel Jean Prouvaire, Angel Jehan, Artist Grantaire, M/M, Major Character Injury, Prophet Grantaire, Prophet Montparnasse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-11-19 03:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11304657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerfave/pseuds/queerfave
Summary: And the sign said: | "The words of the prophets are | Written on the subway walls | And tenement halls | And whispered in the sound of silence."The apocalypse is coming, and the world has been warned, but nobody listens. Grantaire, a prophet and an artist, falls in love with Combeferre, a man placed in an unfortunate circumstance.





	1. and the people bowed and prayed to the neon god they made

_ The world is concluding, completing, ceasing to exist, reaching its finale. As the globe spins, the apocalypse approaches, and soon the world that we love and cherish will be gone.  _

_ The angels watch over this earth, protect its inhabitants. They are gentle creatures, with their long, flowing hair and their draped garments, and they are truly beautiful, but what is most striking are their large, feathered wings that extend from the shoulder blades, five feet in length.  These angels, who wish only the best for the humans, they watch; and the humans will grow and die on this earth with no knowledge of their presence. The angels desperately love our world, and they do not wish for its finale to arrive. However, they have no choice in the matter.  _

_ There are demons that reside in the most profound, yawning abyss of our world, demons that would love nothing more than to see the world fall at their feet. They hate the angels, and they hate all that the angels cherish, so they hate the people of the world. They are maleficent creatures, with onyx eyes deep in their skulls, long fangs that protrude over their lips, and claws on their fingers filed to sharp points. These demons, in their true form, are truly horrifying.  _

_ The demons, long ago, learned to roam our world and cause chaos and destruction with their journeys. The angels could not set foot on the earth, for they were forbidden to interfere in the lives of humans, while the demons had no such commandments. Such the prophets were created. _

_ The prophets of old were powerful men, full of grace, wisdom, and strength. They were fearsome warriors, who defended their people to their last breath. They were kings and princes, generals and priests. They were worshipped and beloved by their people, and such they were chosen to communicate with the angels. The angels would speak their words to the prophets, and the prophets would preach the words to the people, who then loved and cherished the angels. They fought against the demons, and they won great wars and became heroes of their time.  _

_ Slowly, the world turned darker. Prophets forgot to protect their people, turning to corruption, to greed, to envy. The demons overtook the world and took the people as their servants, overturning the ways of the angels and installing their new laws. The prophets grew scarce and unheard, and the angels tried desperately to undo this terrible catastrophe, but the world would not listen to the words of the angels through the voices of the prophets.  _

_ The prophets became the lowest of the low, those who communicated with strange forces and preached of great forces of which they were forbidden to speak. People shunned the prophets, and the world grew darker and blacker, and powerful demons began to control the world- those who could blend among the humans, pretend to be one of them, and praise the golden gods above. They would pretend to overturn the demons, and the people never knew that while overturning ten, they had placed their trust in one as powerful as thirty.  _

_ So the prophets stopped preaching, listening to the angels but never heeding the desire to share their words, never heeding the commandments of the angels to share the words of the benevolent creatures that had once reigned over the world. Prophets grew scarce, and they were rarely selected for their power or for their wisdom, but for their ability to resist the powers of evil that control the world.  _

_ I am one of these prophets.  _

_ I am one of a doomed people, a people to go extinct as the demons shroud our world in darkness and turn us all to pain and suffering. I am the one who speaks of the certain future, I am the one who preaches of the kind, loving creatures that truly love the humans, and one day, I will be the one who pays for these revelations.  _

 

Grantaire groans as a familiar pain fills his head. It aches first towards the back of his skull, moving closer in more concentrated agony towards the front of his head. Grantaire is aware that, by the level of the misery, the angels are furious and trying to send an important message. His head reeling, he sits himself down on the floor of the subway and concentrates on the pain. A distinct message comes through, the voice not quite solid, and more like tolling bells in his mind. 

**“The apocalypse dawns on the horizon, and still the people of this earth do not shed tears of remorse for their fallen world. They are not aware of the impending doom that they face, for the demons have corrupted their minds, and they have forgotten of the angels who guard their lives. Share our words, prophet. Share the message of the angels, that the apocalypse is upon you, and you shall all die.”**

Grantaire places his head in his hands as he allows the pain to subside. The aching strains subside to a dull agony, and Grantaire raises his head. He carefully regains his balance upon his feet to ensure the loss of dizziness, and he immediately reaches towards his satchel to remove a can of crimson spray paint. He intensifies on the vision in his head for a minute, visualizing the way the words would flow over the concrete, the colours overlapping to create a masterpiece. 

He takes several steps down the damp, abandoned subway corridor, passing many other ominous messages painted onto the dull, grey walls, many completed by Grantaire in months passed. The colours illuminate the otherwise boring, ominous atmosphere, yet also add to the creepiness due to the eeriness and vagueness of the messages. Grantaire finds an empty space large enough to house his design, and begins to draft the outline on the wall.

 

The small tone of heels on the concrete floor reach Grantaire’s ears, disturbing the reticence as the vibrations of the small sounds reverberate through the desolate air.  While they are distant, a chill nevertheless runs over Grantaire's shoulder blades and down his back as he concentrates on the secluded noise. He blanches as the clicks approach the dark corner where he currently resides. As the strides turn the corner, Grantaire’s head and shoulders spiral to face the intruder. The tenseness residing in Grantaire’s torso departs upon beholding the visage of the visitor. 

The guest is tall and thin, his posture rendering him both impressive and intimidating. He dons a simple black shirt, made of expensive materials, likely silk. His black leather jacket is open, exposing his collarbones, revealing a hint of ink covered by fabric. The jacket tapers at the man’s waist and sleeves, with pockets near the bottom. Embellished with silver buttons and spikes, it appears to be very expensive. His black jeans cover his thin legs, the exception being several small rips near the hem of the pocks at at the ankles. His black leather shoes are equally as dashing, with heels no more than the height of an inch. His black hair is slicked back, allowing only several strands to fall into his line of vision. The black complimented the guest’s pale skin, and above all, his piercing blue eyes. 

“Good morning, Montparnasse,” says Grantaire. “How strange that you are awake after the sun has risen. I would have thought that vampires are nocturnal creatures, retiring during the hours of light.”

Montparnasse raises his eyebrow slightly. “One would think, Grantaire, that you might be even remotely pleased for my company, myself being the only other seer in this godforsaken country.”

“Godforsaken indeed,” replies Grantaire, wrapping his hand around a can of spray paint. “To think that we might be the only prophets. The atheist, the non-believer; and the leader of a gang, dressed all in black. The underdogs, the ones the people will never believe.”

“All the seers have their time. Cassandra’s musings were ignored, shunned, ridiculed. It never meant that her foresights were untrue.”

“Cassandra was cursed, Montparnasse.” Grantaire turns his head again to regard the leader of the Patron-Minette. “She was cursed by Apollo to be unheard, disbelieved. We are not cursed. What are we, simply unlucky to be the prophets in a world where people do not believe.”

“Oh, they believe, but not in us. They do not believe in the angels, and the demons that plague our lives. They believe in their own neon god, their own Apollo, who brings them peace but forgets that the world is ending.”

“Do the angels even care?” muses Grantaire, his head lost in thought. “Our world, our lives, they are all destined to end. You and I, we are the only ones who can feel the destruction, lingering on the horizon like the sun as it sets to shadow us into the dark of night. We are dying, Montparnasse, and the angels do nothing.”

Montparnasse is silent for a moment. “The angels, they care.”

“Your angel cares, Montparnasse. The angel that saw you on this earth and fell in love with your charm may protect you. Your angel, your beloved Jehan, cares for you and only you. For what else do they care? While the world suffers, while the apocalypse is upon us, you will be safe in the arms of your angel. Your angel cares not for the dying world, only for his prophet.”

“Do not speak ill of Jehan,” growls Montparnasse, approaching Grantaire with vigour. “They cannot interfere with the world around them, and you know this well. Do not speak of what you do not know, for you do not comprehend the depths of my angel’s love for this world. If my Jehan could save every person in this doomed world, be them a saint or a sinner, they would waste no time. My angel has given all they can to this world, so if I hear one more ill word leave your mouth, you will face the repercussions.”

“Not from your angel, I imagine,” mumbles Grantaire, “for if they love this world so much, they will not remove one half of the pair that can preach what they know to be the future. If he loves this world as you describe, then he will not eliminate the chances of its survival.” Grantaire looks at Montparnasse from under his curls. “Neither will you. You will not take the chance of destroying what your angel holds so dear.”

Montparnasse sighs. He holds his head upright. “You believe in nothing, Grantaire.”

“I am well aware,” returns Grantaire. “I am cynical, so I have heard. I have no hope for this world, and I do not believe that the people will rise to combat the fate they have been assigned. You believe that your angel will save you, you know it is fact. Who is here to save me when the world crumbles at the feet of humanity, and I, the harbinger of the bad news, am left to deal with the masses? You can escape, Montparnasse; I cannot. At the first sign, the first moment of trouble your angel will sweep down with their golden wings and carry you to safety, but I must watch the world burn. Call me cynical, call me a non-believer, I have heard it all before from angels and demons alike. I am the one who will die with the world.”

Words do not part from the mouth of Montparnasse. He rotates on the heel of his shoe and strides away from Grantaire. The tones of his shoes hitting the floor slowly growing more silent. 

 

Grantaire sighs as he returns to the surface of the subway. The framework of the expression is faint, but still visible in the dim lighting. He scans the surface to verify for spelling errors. It reads well and conveys his message, so he begins to paint. 

The hours pass as Grantaire uses his spray paint to illuminate the theme of the angels to the people of the world. He is aware of the fact that there are often no visitors to the abandoned subway, but he continues to labour. He is not the one to go preaching to the people of the world, so using his artistry to design the messages on the walls of the subway is what he must accomplish. 

_ How is it that the angels choose those who cannot preach? They must choose the underdogs, the ones in which nobody believes, to do their bidding, to share their words. I am nobody; I am an artist, a failed student of the world who has nothing and will never possess land, never have anything to my name. Yet the angels expect me to go, and to preach their messages to the people of the world. The people do not listen to me.  _

_ The people listen to their golden gods upon their thrones and their altars. The people believe, but they do not believe in the world to which I am exposed, to which I am forced to serve. The world is full of the believers that will never see the dawning of the end that approaches, though I do not know when. The end approaches, and the angels proclaim this to us; but they have chosen the prophets who cannot share their words.  _

_ Montparnasse can do more than I can. He has his gang, Patron-Minette; a group dedicated to him and his cause. They believe Montparnasse’s words and live as if the world will end tomorrow, following Montparnasse everywhere. They are loyal followers, ready to give their lives for their leader. What do I accomplish compared to Montparnasse? He commits crimes in the name of the angels, showing the people that he still believes in the angels. He can convince people; he is suave, and he can talk well. He is the ideal prophet in a time such as this; someone who can find a loyal group of followers and share the message that needs to be spread.  _

_ How many people can see my murals? How many people see them, and believe in the words they preach? How many people shall be persuaded by my art before the world comes to its end, and how many will believe that they are dying from the end before it is over?  _

_ The world is ending, this I know. The world around me does not know this; the world around me does not see my murals, and they will never know and never care. They worship their golden gods and ignore those of us who preach the words of the angels. The world is useless, and we shall die. It is our birthright to die, and we will never be forgiven for allowing the world to fall to our feet.  _

Grantaire completes the mural and treads back, admiring his handiwork. He settles in front of the four words, the bright colours artistically layered over the cement of the subway wall. 

**_The end is coming._ **

Satisfied, Grantaire binds his paint into his small satchel until he hears a growling in the distance. He quickly suspends and hurries to a safer location. A few seconds later, he sees a demon enter the subway, inspecting the painted artwork of Grantaire. It appears to be human until a closer look reveals pitch black eyes, long fangs protruding from its mouth, and sharp claws hinged on the ends of its fingers. Its clothes are ripped and tattered, revealing oily, scaly skin. It wanders around the hallway, nearly coming face to face with Grantaire. His breath hitches and the demon sniffs the air, scratching its claws and marginally close from botching Grantaire’s face. He remains perfectly still and attempts to be as reticent as possible. Eventually, the demon leaves the subway and Grantaire exhales, to inhale deeply again. 

 

As the sun sets over the horizon, the sky darkens to black as silver light illuminates the world below, where people sleep and few walk in the streets of men. This dim light is the world of the demon, of the monsters that men don’t behold. They wander the deserted plazas, the empty buildings, until the sun rises again and they return to their foul caves. 

Grantaire breathes deeply as he carefully inspects the pathway, illuminated by sparse streetlamps, casting a golden gleam on the cobblestones. He remains on the luminous spaces, evading the dark shadows where creatures with maleficent intent could lurk. His feet click on the stone as he maneuvers quickly and sleekly to the one shop he knows to still be open at this hour. He enters the dimly lit building to confront Azelma. 

“What do you desire, Grantaire?” she appeals, her eyes shrouded in darkness. 

“Amulets, for protection,” he states.

“Protection against what?” She slides out from the counter, smoke sitting at her feet. 

“Demons,” returns Grantaire. “It’s difficult to live in a subway when I must constantly be afraid of demons in the shadows.”

“Certainly there are demons from whom you do not need to hide,” croons Azelma, a smile trickling on her round lips.

“I imagine that there are also certainly demons that would spare no moment in attacking me,” Grantaire replies. She nods in affirmation of the statement.  

Azelma extends her arm to below the counter and reveals a small amulet hanging on a silver chain. Grantaire receives the amulet and slips it into his pocket. 

“The demons will be blinded by this amulet. Under its protection, they will not see or hear your presence,” explains Azelma. “You much touch the amulet with your skin for it to function properly.” 

“Thanks,” he whispers quietly, leaving Azelma in her small apothecary on the corner of the dark route. He clutches the amulet in his hand and hurries down the street back to the subway, staying in the light of the streetlamps shining, distinct against the onyx of night and the silver light of the stars. The night is almost calm, and Grantaire cannot feel the presence of any demons around him. He sees a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye, and he turns his head wearily. 

He sees a man striding along the cobblestone street, focused completely on an item in his hand. As Grantaire peers closer, he realizes that the object is a voluminous, arenose novel. Grantaire watches him with a fixation, fascinated and scared by the man wandering the streets this late at night. He begins to follow this man from a distance. The man’s dark curls seem to gleam and shine in the light of the streetlamps, and his dark skin compliments the shape of his face. He wears a blue sweater overtop a white, collared button-up, and dark jeans. He has glasses that seem to fall down his nose every other second. Grantaire smiles. 

The man suddenly topples to the ground, and he releases a cry of pain. Grantaire observes the scene as the man grapples with a humanoid shape with long claws and teeth pulling at his clothing. Grantaire is alert, but his body appears to be frozen in place - he doesn’t know the appropriate course of action, how to aid this man who has been viciously attacked by a demon. His thoughts dispersed, he eventually runs over to the man and, clutching the amulet tight, hauls the demon away and punches it in the nose. The demon starts swinging their fists wildly, scratching their claws in the empty air, but Grantaire delivers another blow to the face and it backs away. 

Grantaire stoops beside the man. 

“What is your name?” He demands. 

“Combeferre,” the man groans. Grantaire inspects his body, and to his dismay, he finds that Combeferre’s shoulder is badly injured and bleeding profusely. 

“I’m going to take you somewhere where you’ll be safe, Combeferre?” Grantaire demands. “Your shoulder can heal and nothing can attack.”

Combeferre doesn’t answer. Grantaire realies that he has collapsed into unconsciousness, and he hoists him over his shoulder and hurries away. 

 

The tones rings out as Grantaire frantically strikes his hand against the wooden frame of Montparnasse’s apartment door. Grantaire comprehends better than to transport Combeferre to the subway, for he needs a proper accommodations for his shoulder, which he will only receive if Montparnasse agrees to cooperate. 

The door hinges open, and the voice of Claquesous enters. 

“Who are you, and what the fuck do you demand at this hour?” He growls. 

“Claquesous, unbar the fucking door. I have a person with me, and he’s injured,” Grantaire argues. “He needs medicine and somewhere to sleep.”

Claquesous creaks open the door and is impacted with an expression of horror. 

“Jesus, what the fuck happened to him?” Claquesous exclaims. 

“Demon. Discover a bed or create one yourself, and find Montparnasse!” 

The apartment’s lighting becomes illuminated as Claquesous begins to scour through the apartment, creating a temporary bed for Combeferre in the hallway. Montparnasse exits his bedroom, dark hair is tousled, dressed in loose black pants and a black button-up shirt imprinted with pink flowers, and his face is overtaken by shock.

“Grantaire, who is this man? Why is he injured, and please explain to me why he is currently residing on a temporary bed in my apartment?” Montparnasse demands. 

“Combeferre is his name, and his shoulder is injured after he was brutally attacked by a demon. I could not transport him to the subway, so I decided that having him reside here while he heals would be the preferable option.”

Montparnasse sighs as he beholds Combeferre, partly conscious and delirious, muttering unintelligible words in a quiet tone. He writhes and flinches at every touch. 

“He can rest here until he is healed,” Montparnasse decides. 

Upon Montparnasse’s confirmation, Grantaire crouches beside Combeferre and pulls him into an embrace. 

“Combeferre, listen to me,” he whispers. “My name is Grantaire. You’re injured, and your shoulder needs to heal. You’re safe here, and demons can’t attack you. Please calm down.”

Combeferre fights against the embrace and Grantaire releases him from his arms. 

“He will perhaps calm down when he is in less pain,” suggests Claquesous. 

“I will part after the sun rises, and the demons return to the unwanted shadows,” declares Grantaire. 

 

Grantaire strides upwards, off the stairs and onto the cobblestone ground. The stones are worn and polished from the centuries of use, and several bear visible fractures as they have reacted to the heavy pressure to which they have been exposed time after time. The cobblestone road paves in only one direction, in the vicinity of the grand plaza of the city. Grantaire begrudgingly takes several steps. 

The sun triumphs down onto the prophet’s head and back as he flounders through the hordes of people, attempting to hasten themselves to other districts, just as Grantaire was accomplishing. He rarely operated out in the open in the presence of the society, though he was conscious of the fact that if he waited until the cover of night, he might be confronted by the many demons that frequented the more popular plazas. To encounter a demon in the nighttime is to encounter a bear in its cave; it is strong and powerful, and one has no chance of escaping. 

Grantaire approaches a particularly populous sector of the plaza and glances around to detect the source of the commotion. In lieu of a brawl or an injury, as he had suspected, he found himself focusing his attention on a man seated in a golden chair, which in turn is sustained by the strength of several servants. A ring of golden curls surround the head of the man, and he is dressed in the finest clothing, the colour of blood, the colour of pain and of anger. He flourishes his hand at the audience, who cheer and rejoice as he passes. 

_ The golden god, Apollo. His name is Enjolras. _ Grantaire is unsure of how he acquired this message, but it is not a token he will refuse.  _ He is worshipped by peasants and nobles alike, for his beauty and his charm. He is a golden god, and the people see him instead of listening to the warnings the angels give us. They only see their golden god, happy upon his altar. He is their Apollo, and as the Greek god cursed Cassandra, he steals away the truth of the world.  _

He skims a hand through his locks as he maneuvers through the horde, attempting to escape the desperate heat and the ovations of the peasants in his ear. He risks another small glance towards the golden god, and he meets the eyes of Enjolras. He suspends in place, unable to take a step or to avert his eyes from the piercing stare of the golden god. His limbs begin to chill in the hot air, and he feels the cold seeping up his arms, as if it resides in his veins. Enjolras only peers thoughtfully at the prophet, a small smirk on his face. Grantaire eventually feels his chest cavity turn cold, and he cranes his vision away from Apollo, the golden god. He feels the bitter cold subside in his limbs as he hastens away. Enjolras examines Grantaire  as he leaves the crowd. He snaps a finger, and a servant is at his side.

“Pursue that man,” he commands simply, and the servant obliges. 

At that same moment, Montparnasse experiences a gentle ache in his head. He can hear the words echoing in his head, the voice of the angel to whom he is devoted. 

**“Montparnasse, now is the time where everything is determined by fate. You cannot stop the world from ending. Now is the time when the apocalypse begins.”**


	2. and the sign flashed out its warning

A powerful creak rings out, echoing in his head, as Grantaire rests his fingers on the door of Azelma’s shop. The glass window on the entryway gleams, reflecting the sunlight, and while Grantaire glimpses through the window to try and recognize if Azelma was present, he could behold nothing. His vision becomes warped and he blinks, confused. He detours away from the shop, taking several strides away before contemplating his actions and revolving back towards the shop, bewildered. He strolls forwards again and propels open the door, avoiding the glass. 

Azelma is settled behind her counter, arms crossed, a faint smirk upon her lips. Grantaire raises an eyebrow to her amusement. 

“You possess quite a peculiar window,” he remarks. 

“Indeed,” she smiles. “Designed to ward away ordinary mortals in the daytime. It’s virtually a miracle that you regained your senses so quickly.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, shaking his head at Azelma. The shop reeks of incense and burning wax, and in the light of day he can gaze upon a great many objects that were invisible in the darkness of the night. The shelves are swarmed with trinkets and tokens, and the ornaments glimmer from jewels. Old bottles with suspicious liquids occupy an entire wall, and beside the door rests a mirror, lined with silver, that doesn’t seem to quite reflect back everything that exists. 

“Why does it only function in the daytime?” He demands. 

“How many mortals have you met who spend the dark hours wandering in strange shops?” Azelma replies. “They have lost their fear, but their superstition remains. However, the mortals are curious during the hours of light. Peculiar creatures, they are.”

“One grows accustomed to our strangeness after many years,” Grantaire smiles. 

“I have spent many more years in this shop than you have lived, Grantaire,” Azelma simply replies. 

“A few decades is nothing to the life of a demon,” Grantaire replies. 

“The  _ life _ of a demon?” Azelma demands, her eyes flushing darker. 

Grantaire shakes his head. “You know of what I speak.”

Azelma leans onto her counter, resting her forearms on the stone and clasping her hands. “Why are you here again, Grantaire?” 

“I need medicine,” he answers. 

Azelma’s eyes scan down Grantaire’s form. “For another?” 

“Yes,” he replies. “An injury of the flesh, but it is extreme.”

Azelma exits from behind her counter to reach the wall where the mysterious bottles are stacked. After inspecting several, she takes one and places it in Grantaire’s hand. 

“This should function your purpose,” she says. Grantaire reaches into his pocket to hand her a coin, but she refuses. 

“I owe you a debt,” Azelma simply says. 

“Even after all the time passed?” Grantaire demands. 

“Yes.”

Grantaire nods, and with a final look, he exits the shop into the busy plaza. 

 

Grantaire gently opens the door to Montparnasse’s apartment, his fingers latched onto the bottle in his hand. He treads silently on the marble flooring, moving leisurely to make as little commotion as possible. He remarks that Montparnasse’s apartment is quite eerie when he’s not in an alarming hysteria. The apartment is silent, and the golden, muted light streams through the thin windows, illuminating the dust floating in the air, drifting slowly. The dark walls are plain but sharp and perfected, the paint without falter or flaw. The air is cool and crisp upon his skin, and it smells faintly of Montparnasse’s cologne and something noble, elegant. He is filled with a strange sense of peacefulness, and an urge to paint this scene, to illuminate its calmness on a canvas and share it with others. 

A sharp irritation in his hand reminds him of his task, for the cap of the bottle is digging into his hand. Looking downwards, he notices a flicker of red, and he realizes that he is bleeding. He shifts the bottle so it no longer cuts into his hand, and he shelters his hand with his jacket to avoid creating a bloodstain on the impeccable floor. Moving towards Combeferre, he admires the way his dark curls spill onto the pillow on which his head rests, and the way his hands are gently folded on his chest. His eyes are closed, and he appears to be at peace, despite his injury. Grantaire kneels beside Combeferre to gently nudge his side. 

Combeferre’s eyes blink open, and he immediately flinches away from Grantaire and begins to fight against his touch. Grantaire backs away until Combeferre has settled, before approaching him again. He talks slowly and calmly, so as to not upset Combeferre. 

“It’s Grantaire. I have medicine for you. It will help your shoulder,” he softly says, as he perches beside Combeferre’s bed. Combeferre takes a shaky breath, and he moves to twist onto his elbow before wincing and collapsing. Grantaire places a hand on Combeferre’s back, helping him ascend to stare Grantaire in the eye. Grantaire proffers the bottle to Combeferre, who narrows his eyes as he inspects the liquid which supplies it. 

“Drink this,” Grantaire prods, uncapping the bottle. “It will help with your shoulder.”

Combeferre seizes the bottle, as Grantaire moves to create more light to inspect Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre coughs, and Grantaire notices in the new light that his face is almost tinted green from sickness, and he watches as Combeferre takes a sip. He reacts poorly to the taste of the medicine, nearly spewing it onto Grantaire. He forces the mouthful down his throat, gagging. 

“Keep drinking,” Grantaire reminds Combeferre. “It tastes terrible, but it will help.”

Combeferre grimaces before taking another mouthful of the liquid. Grantaire gently inspects Combeferre’s shoulder, and he notices that the remainder of Combeferre’s formerly-clean shirt is now sodden with blood. He takes the opportunity to detect a pair of scissors and cut the bloody fabric off Combeferre’s chest. He makes a mental remarks of the fact that there are faint scars on Combeferre’s chest, just above his ribs. He then gently touches the swollen skin next to the wound. 

Combeferre lurches away sharply, obviously affected by the touch, and nearly spilling the medicine across himself. Grantaire recoils his hands and allows Combeferre to finish drinking all the medicine before touching him again. Combeferre doesn’t flinch as hard, and he has evidently decided to trust Grantaire. Grantaire gathers the pile of bandages, inevitably collected by Montparnasse, and binds Combeferre’s shoulder wound tightly. Combeferre releases a shaky breath and Grantaire reclines, watching him closely. 

“Do you feel alright?” Grantaire questions. 

Combeferre coughs again, and he replies with shaky words. 

“The medicine tastes horrendous, but the pain has lessened. Thank you.”

Grantaire allows a smile to creep across his lips, and he watches as Combeferre does the same. His smile is kind and radiant, and he allows a laugh to pass from his lips. Grantaire finds himself mesmerized with the sight before him. 

Combeferre glimpses down to inspect his shoulder, and he prods a finger at the surrounding skin. 

“Be wary,” Grantaire warns. “Your wound is bleeding profusely, and several people become fatigued at the spectacle of blood.”

“You can be calm,” Combeferre replies. “I’m accustomed to the sight of my own blood.”

Combeferre touches the skin again, venturing closer to where the blood is seeping through the bandages. The smile fades from his face and he winces. He turns back to Grantaire, serious. 

“What was that creature that attacked me?” Combeferre demands, his voice serious. 

“Something dangerous,” are the only words that leave Grantaire’s mouth. Combeferre says nothing more. 

 

“Grantaire,” whispers Montparnasse from near the wall. As Grantaire turns his head, Montparnasse beckons with his fingers. Slowly ascending from Combeferre’s side, he stumbles towards Montparnasse. Montparnasse latches his hand onto Grantaire’s arm, who then glances back at Combeferre before being allowed to be transported into another chamber, connected by an open door through which Montparnasse watches Combeferre out of the corner of his eye. Grantaire regards Montparnasse’s face and remarks that Montparnasse’s eyes are red, and he appears to be exhausted.

“Grantaire, I received a message from Jehan,” Montparnasse states plainly. 

“What does your divine messenger say to you?” Grantaire replies, exasperated. 

“Jehan has proclaimed to me that the apocalypse is inevitable,” Montparnasse tells Grantaire. 

“We have known this already,” Grantaire says. “We have been aware of our impending downfall since the moment we were first contacted by the angels.”

“Grantaire, the apocalypse has started,” Montparnasse whispers. “He told me that everything is now determined by fate. We cannot avoid the end of the world, Grantaire.”

“When did Jehan tell you this?” Grantaire demands. 

“After you left for the medicine,” Montparnasse says, his voice dropping even further. 

Grantaire glances back at Combeferre. “Do you gather this new information is related to him?” 

“I do not know,” Montparnasse confesses. “I believe the timing is too coincidental to not be directly related. Why else would the apocalypse start as soon as he arrives here?” 

“That is peculiar,” Grantaire ponders. “He is not a prophet like us, nor is he a demon, and he is certainly not an angel. How could he be a pawn of fate if he is not a part of our world?” 

“I do not know. He is suspicious nevertheless. We must watch him carefully,” Montparnasse suggests. Grantaire only nods before turning back to watch Combeferre. He seems to be at peace, resting against the wall and tapping his fingers against his leg.

_ How cruel that he is a pawn, _ Grantaire thinks.  _ He does not warrant this fate. _

 

The similar trickle of pain floods Grantaire’s mind, and he clasps his head and groans under his breath. From the corner of his eye, he watches as Montparnasse grits his teeth and sinks his nails into a chair. The words then come rattling into their thoughts. 

**“The apocalypse is dawning, and the world will cease to exist. Profess this message to the people of the earth, for you are the prophets, chosen to do our bidding. Preach this message! Aidelp the people overturn their false gods, the gods that walk on the earth, and prepare themselves for what lies ahead! Go, prophets, and speak the truth.”**

Grantaire remains on the floor as the words settle in his head, and he steadies himself to avoid collapsing. The message is ingrained in his brain, and every fiber of his body wishes to heed the command of the angels, to go out and teach the people of the apocalypse, of the angels that protect and the demons that destroy. He struggles against this sensation, aware that it will pass in several minutes. He knows that Montparnasse is experiencing a similar struggle. 

Grantaire remarks a hand resting on his shoulder, and he turns to meet Combeferre’s eyes. The other man has risen, and he appears to be much healthier now than he was several hours previous. His eyes are sincere and full of concern, and his lips are pressed together tightly. 

“Are you ill? Do you have a headache?” He demands. 

“Somewhat,” mumbles Grantaire. “Headache, yes. Sick, not particularly. It will pass with time, this I know, for it is not the first occurrence.”

“Perhaps they are migraines,” suggests Combeferre, “or perhaps they are tension headaches. Where is the ache centralized? Is your vision obstructed? Are you dazed?” 

“I don’t need you to identify the cause,” Grantaire replies. “I know the pain which ails me. I know from what it is derived.”

Combeferre sits silently. His dark curls are piled atop his head, and he squints silently from the loss of his glasses. His breathing is slow, but deep. His bandaged shoulder limits his movement, but he attempts to pull Grantaire into a hug. 

_ It seems as if he is the one helping me recover, and not the reverse, _ thinks Grantaire. 

Montparnasse raises himself from the chair in which he is seated and strides over to Combeferre and Grantaire. 

“Those headaches are always a bitch,” he complains. “At least they are courteous enough to not contact us constantly. I don’t think I could deal with this shit more frequently.”

Grantaire nods in agreement. Combeferre’s eyes shift between the two men. 

“You experience the same agonies at the same moment?” Demands Combeferre, confused. 

“It’s a story that takes much explanation,” Grantaire explains. 

“I am injured. I cannot move. There is time to explain this to me,” says Combeferre somewhat stubbornly. 

Grantaire signs. “Montparnasse and I are both prophets.”

Combeferre blinks several times. “Prophets?” 

“Precisely. In this world, there exist both angels and demons. The demons are creatures of maleficent intent, who wish to destroy the world along with humankind. The angels are meant to protect the human race, but they cannot interfere directly in our world. So, the angels choose a prophet to speak their words to the men of the earth.”

“Your headache, that was the angels speaking?” 

“Indeed.”

“What do the angels say to you?” 

Grantaire is silent. Montparnasse stares at Grantaire until catching his eye. 

“Shall we tell him?” Grantaire mouths.

“Well, sharing the message is what the angels desire,” Montparnasse mouths in return. He seats himself beside Combeferre. “The world is ending. The apocalypse is coming.”

Combeferre is silent. Montparnasse continues to speak. 

“The angels, they are upset because the people have began to worship false gods, like your Apollo. The world is ending, and they wish for people to heed their words and believe. However, our task is the most difficult.”

Combeferre takes a deep breath. “You are prophets, who can hear the words of angels.”

“That is correct,” replies Montparnasse. “Do you believe us?” 

Combeferre looks Grantaire in the eye. “Yes, I believe you.”

 

Montparnasse turns away from Grantaire and Combeferre, and he tugs on his sleeve, straightening the material. Grantaire rotates his head towards the other prophet, an eyebrow elevated, though Montparnasse does not notice this movement. He adjusts his folded collar and takes a deep breath. He then motions back to Grantaire and Combeferre. 

“I imagine that you shall not cause chaos while I am departed?” He demands, his voice reverted back to his usual frigid tone. “I can ensure that my apartment will not be discovered in shambles when I return?” 

Grantaire nods once, locking eyes with Montparnasse for a short second. Satisfied, Montparnasse slides on his heel and strides to his front door. He removes a long black jacket off a silver coat hanger and slips it on, along with a pair of sleek, black gloves. Glancing in an ornate mirror, he admires his reflection for one moment, reflecting on his high cheekbones and his grey eyes that seem to imitate the moon. He exits his apartment, all the while moving gracefully. 

While the sun had shone earlier in the day, the clouds had now shrouded the sun and rain pours from above. The rain is almost soothing, creating a steady beat on the cobblestone. Montparnasse strides out into the street, the heels of his shoes creating a clicking tone on the stones. The rain cascades around him, soaking his hair and his shoulders. He senses a familiar pain in his head - not a throbbing pain, but more of an alert fever, a comfortable ache. 

**The world is beautiful in this state, is it not?**

The voice is light and airy, with a comfortable, sweet timbre that echoes in Montparnasse’s head. He smiles.

“Indeed, it is,” he agrees, speaking aloud. 

He continues to walk in the rain, taking in the familiar yet eerie sights of the street. The buildings, constructed of bricks worm from time, are beginning to crumble. The streetlamps are old and they shine no longer. However, there is a sense of unity among them. 

**The world can be so peaceful without the presence of demons** , the voice continues.  **Without pollution, without malice, without hate.**

“The world can never be truly peaceful,” Montparnasse replies. “That is why the prophets were created, were they not?” 

There is silence for several long moments. Montparnasse walks along the river, leaning against the rail which prevents him from falling into the angry swirls below. The rain ripples the water with mesmerising patterns. 

**The prophets were created to teach the people. The prophets were never meant to be defenders. They were meant to be speakers.**

“Did you ever believe the world could exist without demons?” 

Montparnasse reaches a bridge above his head, sheltered from the rain. The rushing water churns below him, and he crosses his arms over the ledge.

**I had hoped. The apocalypse approaches, and I believe that once it is over, we can start anew.**

“The apocalypse will destroy this world,” Montparnasse says. “We cannot change what is defined, Jehan. The apocalypse will destroy this world.”

**I can save you.**

“I do not need saving.”

**Is that what you believe?**

“Why should I be saved when there will be nothing to which we can return?”

Jehan is silent. 

**There are times when you are hopeless, Montparnasse; and being a prophet, these are the saddest moments of all.**

 

Combeferre peers up to examine Grantaire, who evidently appears exhausted from the message of the angels. He’s situated on a chair across the room, dabbling with a trinket in his hand. The trinket is golden, and it sits on a long, dark cord which is crudely tied at one end. In the center of the trinket, a clear stone resides, surrounded by etchings. He flips it over in his hands, watching it carefully as if it could disappear any moment. His dark curls are tousled on his head, and a few fall into his line of vision before being quickly tucked back behind his ear. His green eyes are focused, and his brows are almost furrowed. His beaten, frayed jacket is splattered with paint on the sleeves, but still completely intact. His jeans and shoes, despite being threadbare, are still of an excellent quality. 

“Where did you receive that amulet?” Combeferre asks hesitantly, breaking the silence. 

“A demon named Azelma gifted it to me,” replies Grantaire. “It permits me to hide my presence from all demons. They cannot hear me or see me when it protects me.” 

“Can I see it?” Combeferre demands. Grantaire replies by rising from the chair and striding over to Combeferre before seating himself again. He places the amulet in Combeferre’s hand, who then inspects it. 

Grantaire glances around and notices the novel that Combeferre had carried as he was attacked. He had barely noticed it as he had carried Combeferre in the darkness, but he assumed now that Combeferre had simply latched to it in his pain. He leans over to pick it up. 

“What are you reading?” He demands, opening the book. While the letters were the same, the words that danced across the worn pages were not words that he recognized, and he concluded that it was written in a foreign language. 

“It’s an old novel, a personal favourite of mine,” Combeferre explains. “It’s written in French, and it’s about a bell-ringer who lives in a cathedral called Notre-Dame.”

“Who wrote it?” Grantaire demands, enthralled by the novel. 

“I do not know. Some pages are worn, and the author’s name is illegible both on the cover and on the inside pages.”

Grantaire flips through the covers, enchanted by the fatigued pages and the fading ink that rests on them, telling what he knows in his soul to be a fantastic story, in another language. He runs his hand over the cover before returning ot to Combeferre. 

“I do not understand French,” he says. 

“I could try and find a translation for you,” Combeferre suggests, smiling. “After my shoulder heals, that is.”

“That would be fantastic. Thank you,” Grantaire chuckles. He continues to watch Combeferre, and he notices how his entire face lights when he smiles, and his dark eyes are warm, a safe, comfortable dark that feels like home. They glitter with gold in the light.

 

Montparnasse inclines himself over the railing, peering into the dark abyss of swirling water. The river rushes, its uncontrolled, uncontained power a sight to behold. Seizing a deep breath, he takes a step back from the river onto the cobblestones and moves back out into the rain. The droplets plummet onto his face, drenching his hair once again, as he steps through puddles. The sky overhead is grey, clouded and dreary, with no hint of blue. 

The street mimics the sky, and the tall buildings and houses are made of dull grey bricks, illuminated only by a rare coloured drape or fading paint on a door. The doors lead directly from the avenue into the living quarters, but the shutters are all sealed, providing the houses vacant, abandoned auras. Their windows are chalky and decrepit, and there are few which do not possess at least one fissure. The windowsills could have been enthusiastic once, but with time, they have worn and chipped away to become pitiful. The streetlights are soaring and menacing, and while the light bulbs are broken, their imposing stature scares away the toughest burglar. 

Montparnasse walks in the stuffy silence, yet he cannot curb the feeling that he is being scrutinized. He glances over his shoulder, but he cannot pinpoint any other movement. The air is still as Montparnasse pauses and inspects the corners of the buildings carefully. He sees nothing, hears nothing; so he continues on his way. 

He reaches the entrance to a subway, and reflecting briefly on the state of his sodden jacket and shoes, he quickly climbs down the staircase into the empty subway. While the rain does not pour, it is damp and humid, and the air reeks of something rotting. He turns up his nose at the stench, recalling that just a day earlier he had visited Grantaire in these subways. 

He continues along the path, creating an internal outline of which orientation would drive him closest to his apartment. He follows the winding tunnels in the rancid, heavy air, gazing at Grantaire’s art on the subway walls. They portray the upcoming Apocalypse, with messages of doom and of warning. Montparnasse remarks upon Grantaire’s handiwork, noting that Grantaire is quite talented. 

He is so abstracted by his own thoughts that he does not perceive another person approach him. 

“Hello!” chimes the person cheerfully. Montparnasse nods up, dazed, towards the man. His face is plump and kind, and dark hair frames his shoulders. 

“I’m regretful to say that I am lost,” he says. “These subways are perplexing, and I can’t find my way. Can you help me escape these mazes?” 

Montparnasse squints at the man uncertainly. He doesn’t trust strangers, and the subways are a peculiar place to be. He takes a stride backwards from the man and inspects him. His clothes are rather nice, and he is clean-cut. 

“What is your name?” Montparnasse demands warily. 

“I’m Courfeyrac,” the man replies. “What is yours?” 

Montparnasse doesn’t answer the question. 

“Where are you heading?” Courfeyrac questions. 

Montparnasse snarls back. “It’s none of your business.”

Courfeyrac’s smile falters, and his face flickers. It’s only for a second, but Montparnasse easily beholds the long fangs and the red eyes. In a second, he pulls out a pocketknife, from which dangles a keychain similar to Grantaire’s amulet, but imbued with different runes. Courfeyrac stumbles backwards. 

“Go away, demon,” Montparnasse threatens, “or you won’t depart here alive.”

Courfeyrac runs away, his polished shoes hitting the stone. Montparnasse doesn’t lower the knife until the air is silent again. 

 

The frigid evening air settles in the streets, heavy with the aftermath of the rain. The setting sun peeks out from behind the grey clouds, and the sky is blurred with orange and pink. There is chatter to be heard, of the many people admiring the sunset, the cheers of children playing outdoors, and the barks of some dogs. Scents of food fill the air, with smoke and laughter. 

The noises mask the sound of the heavy footsteps descending down the roads. They mask the whispers, and they mask the scent of wet stone and rotting food that lingers on the garments of this person. This person walks unnoticed, invisible in the evening air, their head bowed low to conceal their face, their hands stuffed in their pockets. The person strides across the cobblestones, slightly clumsy in their footing, but not enough to be noticeable. 

They reach a house on the end of a street, the only house that appears empty and abandoned. The front light is off, and the windows appear dusty and covered. The individual turns the handle of the door slowly, and the lock clicks to swing the door open on its hinges. The person turns to glance around before entering the house and closing the door carefully. 

The person strides through the house to the long, curved stairwell, leading towards a basement. They carefully descend into a dark room, where they illuminate a single lamp. 

“Hello, Courfeyrac,” a voice says. 

“Good evening, Enjolras,” he replies. 

Enjolras turns up his nose in the dim lighting. 

“The sewers, Courfeyrac?” 

“I followed the prophet,” he protests. 

“Does he suspect?” Enjolras demands. 

“He discovered that I am a demon, but does he suspect that you are one of us? Not to my awareness.”

“Good.” Enjolras turns his head away from the light, and runs a hand through his hair. 

“Enjolras?” 

“Yes, Courfeyrac?” 

“They have Combeferre.”

“Excellent. You did well last night.”

“He didn’t even recognize me when I attacked him.”

Enjolras rises from where he is sitting to regard Courfeyrac with a smile. 

“Continue to watch the prophets - both the crime lord and the artist. Ensure that Combeferre does not leave. He is crucial to my plan.”

**Author's Note:**

> My tumblr is @soft-grantaire. 
> 
> Wow, this has been a painful process of editing since I started writing, 3 days ago. A lot was solidified in the first few hours of brainstorming. I'm very proud of how this turned out, and the second chapter will hopefully be out soon!
> 
> I created a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/angesansnom/playlist/1yoOhK3HaDsVFjQdl5ERTS) for this fic as well! Check it out!


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